Pageant of Locusts By J. Paul Henderson
(2011-04-15 at 04:25:42 )

Pageant of Locusts By J. Paul Henderson

A year in advance, they are all gearing up and getting ready.

Quadrennially (although it seems continuously), a swarm of presidential
candidates descends on the populous like locusts. Locusts are better for
us, though. Because unlike presidential candidates, locusts only become
a nuisance every seven years.

Three years ago, although it seems like just yesterday, all the major
television networks were preempting their reality shows and other
quality fare with two mini-series known as the Democrat and Republican
conventions. For as long as I could hold my dinner down I watched,
incredulous, as the four-year locusts paraded, one by one, across the
television screen.

The stages were f illed with has-beens, wannabes, winners and losers. At
the Democrat convention, the winner was some guy named Barack - or Barry
something or other. Some guy who can not even seem to recall where he
was born, who was whisked from obscurity into the limelight by forces as
yet unknown. That alone made it good theater. But adding to the interest
was his choice of a running mate. To "balance" the ticket, he chose a
painfully dull old white man.

Over on the Republican side the clear winner was John McCain, who over
the course of his unfortunately long political career, had sold himself
out to so many special interests that whores were complaining he was
giving them a bad name. His choice for vice president was some chick
from Alaska no one had ever heard of. Best I could f igure, her primary
qualif ications for the job were big hair and good legs. Oh yeah, and
that she had actually shot a bear, which made her a sort of female
equivalent of Davy Crockett.

While the four-year locusts were on stage, actually taking themselves
seriously, thousands of political groupies in silly-looking straw hats
were screaming and shouting, waving signs f illed with vacuous slogans,
and chanting like over-zealous fans at a high school football game. They
looked more ridiculous than a bunch of drunken Shriners.

Well, it is 2011 and the four-year locusts are back, getting geared up
for next year. Strangely, unlike the seven-year locust, Americans
actually like the four-year variety. They treat the plague descending on
the land much as they would a beauty pageant. A sort of bevy of locusts.

In a way, this almost makes sense. The candidates all have charm and
grace. And they all have talent (acting), good looks (a prerequisite),
and superficiality (an absolute prerequisite). And as the pageant wears
on, Americans rally around their favorites.

During the Miss America Pageant, we root for the contestant with the
best cleavage, the longest legs or most perfect teeth. Or the one with
the well-cultivated southern accent or whose life-long violin lessons
finally paid off. The Pageant of Locusts is much the same. The finalists
are the ones with "charisma", "leadership potential", "a crowd pleasing
personality" or some vague quality referred to as "Presidential".

As the time for the crowing draws near, all the candidates but one have
been eliminated. Because they fell short in the talent competition. In
the Pageant of Locusts the talent competition consists of promising to
give everybody everything at the expense of everybody else.

Once the crownings and parties are over, the real locust plague begins.
The campaign. And in spite of the countless hours of time devoted to
election coverage, members of what is laughingly referred to as the news
media can not seem to manage imparting any information beyond the
candidates standing in the polls and the latest rounds of name-calling.

On those rare occasions when a candidate is actually asked a question of
real substance or importance by a talking bobble head in TV Newsland,
the answer is cloaked in hyperbole, euphemism and chicanery. They do not
talk about the issues; they talk about talking about the issues.

"While my opponent has persisted in mud-slinging and character
assassination, I have been taking my campaign to the people. I am
talking about the real issues of the campaign. Things like defense,
taxes, jobs, the def icit, quality education, bringing us all together
and moving America forward, creating a strong future for our children
and grandchildren."

Uh huh. We are all listening. Tell us more. But of course, There Is
NO MORE!!

In fact, during the aftermath of the last Pageant of Locusts, each
candidates entire rationale for being entitled to live in the big
mansion on the Potomac consisted to six words. McCain: "I was a prisoner
of war." Obama: "Hope and change. Yes we can." Jeeeeze. We get better
slogans than that from Chevrolet and Verizon.

By the time election day rolls around, we know less about our choices
than we do about the winner of the Miss America Pageant. Indeed, thanks
to Penthouse magazine, I learned more about Vanessa Williams than I did
about either presidential candidate that year.

Deep down in our heart of hearts, we all know that in spite of all the
promises of a better tomorrow, whoever wins is going to raise taxes,
increase the def icit, enact more restrictive laws, kiss the behinds of
big banks and multi-national corporations, blow the brains out of
innocent people in obscure countries and blame all our problems on
Muslims and the Chinese.

We all know that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
Deep down inside we know the Pageant of Locusts is just expensive,
skillfully-produced entertainment designed to create the illusion of
government by and for the people. We know this. But we participate
anyway. Like it is our Duty or Something.

I never cared who won the Miss America Pageant and I never voted in the
American Idol competition. What would be the point? No matter who wins
these contests, my life does not change in any way. Not so with the
Pageant of Locusts. In that case. My life will get worse.
No matter who wins.

April 12, 2011

J. Paul Henderson lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Copyright © 2011 by LewRockwell.com. Permission to reprint in whole or
in part is gladly granted, provided full credit is given.